


Back To Bedlam

by sasha_b



Series: Live By The Sword [22]
Category: King Arthur (2004), Original Work
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-11
Updated: 2013-11-11
Packaged: 2018-01-01 05:49:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1041090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sasha_b/pseuds/sasha_b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The aftermath of <i>He Sells Sanctuary</i>.  Lance survives and Arthur grieves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Back To Bedlam

**Author's Note:**

>   I thought the title for this chapter particularly appropriate due to Lancelot’s constant fight against becoming what his family wants – going back to Bedlam is definitely not something he’ll do easily.
> 
> Lyrics and title taken from James Blunt's album of the same name.

 

_I saw your face in a crowded place_  
 _but I don't know what to do_  
 _cause I'll never be with you_

When the swell of doctors and nurses in the tiny waiting room began to shout and run, Arthur dropped his paper and pen, and followed.  One of the male nurses blocked him at the door to Lancelot’s room, saying something about giving the doctors room to work and how the last thing Lance needed was too many people in the way.  Arthur fought against him briefly, but the man was _strong_ , and despite the fact that Arthur wasn’t exactly weak, he backed down.  He knew the man was right; it didn’t make it any easier, however.

He clung to the glass, watching the doctor fight to get Lance’s pulse back under control, and hadn’t realized how hard he’d been clutching the frame of the window until he took his hands down and noticed the fingers were red from the wood.

When they had Lance stablized, a nurse came into the hallway, smiling gently at Arthur.  He turned blurry eyes on her, and she motioned to him.  They sat in the small chairs by the nurse’s station.  “He had a reaction to some medication,” she explained quietly, “but seems to be settling fine now.  We’ve changed the drugs - have you managed to get a hold of his family yet?”

Arthur wanted to yell _I’m his family!_ but didn’t take it out on the poor nurse.  Instead he nodded.  “His sister’s been here, and she’s gone to meet her father.  They’ll be back soon, I would expect.”

He refrained from adding _unfortunately._

She patted his arm comfortingly, which only elevated his feelings of anger and helplessness.  “You’re a good friend to have stayed with him for so long.”  She got up, telling him not worry, and bustled away.

Arthur sunk his head into his hands, then jerked it up at the sound of Guin's voice.

“…Arthur’s been with him, Roland, everything’s fine.”

“Why did you let that _person_ in here with him?  You know how I feel about him…” Roland Benoit trailed off when he caught sight of Arthur seated in the waiting room.

Their eyes met, the older man sparing a scathing glance for his son’s lover.  “Castus.”

Arthur nodded once.  “Mr. Benoit.”  He stood, going to Guin's  side, and took her arm.  “He’s doing as well as can be expected.  One of the nurses told me he had a reaction to some medication, but that’s normal.  He’s resting now.  I haven’t been in yet,” he admitted, slightly ashamed.  He didn’t mention the fact he had seen the reaction to the drugs, and wiped his hands on his pants, the skin still red. 

Guin sighed, and squeezed Arthur’s hand.  “We’ll see him,” she answered, and grabbed her father’s arm.  “Roland, let’s go see Lancelot now.”  The elder Benoit eyed Arthur once more, the distaste evident in his look.  His expensive suit and wool coat stood out starkly in the plain hospital corridor.  “Fine, Guinevere.  But you do remember I have to be on the plane at….”

Arthur didn’t hear the rest of it as the two entered Lance’s room and shut the door.  Arthur could see their shadows moving around, but that was all.

He sat back down, and clutched at the knees of his jeans.  Staring out the window into the grey sky, he counted his breaths until Guin and her father emerged.  She was pale and her eyes slightly red; Roland looked even more closed off than before.

“Arthur,” Roland said in farewell, and continued to walk to the elevator, pulling his daughter with him.  Guin mouthed an _I’ll call you_ at Arthur, and he nodded in response.

When the two were gone, Arthur approached the nurse who had spoken to him.  “May I – may I go in, now?”  He had to clear his throat to make himself understood.  He absolutely refused to break down in front of strangers, especially before seeing Lance if he was awake.  _God, please let him wake up._

“Of course,” the nurse replied, “but not for too long.  He’s got to rest.”  Arthur agreed, and he entered the small room, which was somewhat dark due to the closed blinds and dirty sky.

Shutting the door behind him, he made his way to the bed, his legs working slowly, feeling as if he were trying to forge his way through a sticky swamp.  This was the last place he wanted to be, but he wouldn’t leave Lance alone in this tiny, shadowy place full of the smells and sounds of the sick and dying.  Never.

_Cause I saw the end before we'd begun_

Lancelot still looked as if he were merely asleep. His head was tilted to the side, his lashes resting on his high cheekbones, inky smudges underneath them.  Arthur bit back a small noise, and sat in the chair that had been vacated by one of the visiting Benoit’s.

He watched the other man breathing, the rise and fall of his chest somewhat soothing to Arthur despite the greyness of Lancelot’s skin and lips.  He did have two high dots of color in his cheeks, which was also comforting.

Arthur scooted the chair as far forward as it would go, and picked up Lance’s hand, letting it rest in his own, the fingers of Arthur’s other hand running over Lancelot’s gently.  He kept the long cool fingers clutched in his own, staring down at them until drops of moisture from his eyes spattered their skin and the blankets of the bed.

“Hi."

Arthur’s head jerked up, his hand involuntarily squeezing the one in his grasp.  Lancelot’s somewhat hazy brown eyes were watching him, albeit with half open lids.  Arthur didn’t say anything at first; he drew Lance’s hand to his mouth and brushed his lips over the skin of Lance’s thumb, near the weak pulse.   His eyes shut for a moment, then he forced them back open, lowering the hand.  Two days of hell – after Lance’s surgery, he had been comatose, and Arthur had been insane with worry.

“Not sure whether I should beat you senseless for putting me through this – or if having to stay in a hospital for several days is punishment enough.”  His smile broadened briefly and he wiped hastily at his cheeks, the skin burning and wet.

“Let’s save the punishment til we’re alone,” Lancelot laughed roughly, then pulled a face, his free arm moving toward his middle.  He winced, pain induced frown deepening.  Arthur touched his arm gently, moving it away from the site.  “You had surgery, Lance,” he explained, “you had a tear in your muscle wall.”

Lance cocked his head slightly, his expression still glazed.  “W-what happened?  Why can’t I remember?  Damn it,” he sighed, his eyes filling from frustration.

_Oh, god, please don’t let him cry_.

Arthur’s own tears rushed back again, but he smiled through them, wrapping his fingers more securely about Lancelot’s hand.

“You will.  You got hit by a car.  You should recover just fine.”  He kept the smile on his face, the skin feeling cracked and masklike.

“Was Guin here?  I remember hearing her.  And … Roland?”

Arthur nodded.  _Good.  At least he’s remembering some things._ “Yes to both.  They just left.  Guin said she would call later.”

Lancelot rolled his head back so it was level on the pillow.  His eyes drifted shut.  “My father was here?  Will wonders never cease?”  The corner of his mouth rose once in mirth, then his face gradually smoothed out as he succumbed to sleep again.  Arthur watched him, the tears falling faster now, and rested his head on the edge of the bed, still clutching Lance’s hand.  He jumped at the light touch on his shoulder.

“Sir?  He should rest, now.”  It was the nurse from earlier, and Arthur rose, pausing once to place a tiny kiss on the hand he held before letting go relunctantly.  He didn’t care that the woman saw him do it.

He followed her into the now dark waiting room, and made to sit in the chairs.  She touched him again.  “Why don’t you get some rest as well?” she suggested, looking pointedly at the clock on the wall.  “He’ll be fine.  We keep a constant eye on all our patients.”

Arthur shook his head.  “I can’t leave him alone in here,” he said quietly, rubbing at his eyes.  God, but he was tired.  “I can’t do that.”

“He’s not alone,” the woman answered, trying to reassure Arthur.  “Look, Mr….”

“Arthur.  Arthur Castus,” he answered.  It was a testiment to his exhaustion that he didn’t catch her name when she said it.  “Arthur,” she said kindly, “I’m on duty til eight tomorrow morning.  I’ll watch him.  Please, for your sake and his, go sleep some.  I’ll call you if anything changes.  Let me have your number.”

She brought out a small notebook, and Arthur gave it to her, reluctantly agreeing he did need sleep.  She rubbed his arm one more time, promising again to call if Lance asked for him, then hustled away.

Taking one last look at Lance through the glass, Arthur stumbled to the elevator, and leant heavily against the metal wall as the thing decended.  He tried not to think about what had happened, but found that was _all_ that he could focus on.

_Lancelot, lying in the street, limbs akimbo and head coated in blood as he and Guin came to a screeching halt, Arthur leaping out of the Jag.  Rain pounded into him, washing the blood away and turning the street into a crimson nightmare.  The car that had hit Lance was smashed into a telephone pole, the driver apparently still behind the wheel or unconscious, or dead._

_He screamed Lancelot’s name, feeling for a pulse as people began to pour out of the coffee shop on the corner, several of them using their cells to call the cops.  Guinevere’s shoes clacked loudly on the pavement and suddenly she was beside Arthur, using an umbrella to shield Arthur and her brother from the rain.  Arthur had a momentary glimpse of the thing, and it’s painted yellow nylon that seemed very surreal against the black of the sky and the red of his blood covered fingers._

_“Lancelot,” she breathed, her makeup running down her face.  “Oh my god, Arthur!  Is he alive?”_

_There it was, weak and thready under his fingers, but it was there nonetheless.  “Yes,” he answered, a strange calm coming over him.  Lance wouldn’t die.  Not when Arthur was here.  Not when he could do something about it.  He stripped off his shirt, ripping it into a few chunky pieces, and used one to wipe the blood off Lancelot’s face.  Locating the source of the bleeding, he staunched the head wound with the cloth, using his free hand to search the younger man’s body for any broken bones or other lacerations._

_A quiet moan; Arthur focused on Lancelot’s face.  The other man’s eyes were open, and he seemed to be trying to speak.  His lips formed one word._

_“Don’t talk,” Arthur said, putting a finger over Lance’s mouth briefly.  “Ambulance is on it’s way.”  Which was true; he could hear the sirens._

_“Arth…”_

_“Hush,” commanded Arthur as he heard the bus pull to a complete stop, and the sounds the EMT’s made as they rushed to the threesome._

_One of the men moved Guin out of the way, and the rain began to fall again on Arthur and Lancelot.  Another EMT touched Arthur on the shoulder._

_“Sir, move.  We need to help him.”_

_Arthur couldn’t seem to make his legs work, despite the wisdom in the man’s statement.  Two of the larger EMT’s took Arthur by the arms and yanked him back.  Suddenly everything rushed terrifyingly forward and Arthur was hyperaware of his surroundings; the lights, the rain, the people watching, the blood – all the blood, on the cement and on Lancelot’s face._

_“Lance,” he whispered, crumpling to the ground where the EMT’s had left him, his eyes trained on the fallen body and the people swarming around it.  “Lancelot,” he cried out, and this time the other man answer him._

_“Arthur?  Arthur, where are you?”_

_Arthur could hear the pain in the other man’s tone, sense the confusion and fright.  His frozen muscles screamed into action; he attempted to shove his way through the phalanx of EMT’s and newly arrived cops to no avail.  They just wouldn’t move._

_“Here, I’m here,” he called, knowing it was the best he could do.  “I’m right here.”_

The harsh bell of the elevator doors opening brought Arthur out of his reverie.  Scrubbing his face with his hand roughly, he walked unsteadily to the parking lot, and his car.  Briefly thankful that he hadn’t ridden his bike, he started the engine, and turned the a/c on full blast so he wouldn’t fall asleep driving home.

_I'm so hollow baby_

*

Jerking awake to the sound of his phone, Arthur leapt for it and crashed to the hardwood floor, just managing to press the ‘talk’ button before the phone clicked to voicemail.  “Castus,” he said breathlessly.

“Come get me out of this place,” the raw but recognizable voice grated through the receiver.  Arthur blew out a breath.  “I can’t,” he said, “you’re not cleared to leave.  But I’m on the way back now.”

“Please.”

At that one word, Arthur was up, his shoes were back on, and he was out the door to his car.

Two seconds later, the door banged back open, and Arthur ran back into the house, grabbed up the small object he had left on the table, and left again, this time the door staying shut.

*

He could hear Lancelot’s raised voice as the doors to the elevator opened, and sped up as something crashed against the wall.

“Mr. Benoit, that’s hardly helpful,” the doctor admonished, wiping water off his face.  Arthur skidded into the room, sliding in the rest of the water, which had spilled from the broken vase that had previouly held flowers.

“Arthur – for fuck’s sake, tell this man I can go home.  It’s been almost three days since the surgery, I can piss by myself, and I’m GOING INSANE!” Lance bellowed, then grabbed at his stomach, his face blanching white.

Arthur made his way to the bed, and put his hand under Lancelot’s chin, forcing the other man to look up.  “One more night.  Okay?  I don’t want to take you home and have you bleeding on my floor,” he tried to joke, but his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Fine,” the younger man hissed through his pain, and lowered his chin.  He crossed his arms, grimmaced, then lay them by his sides.  Arthur turned to the doctor.  “He’ll stay tonight.”

The doctor nodded, adjusted some of the machines by Lance’s bedside, then stared pointedly down at him.  “Good.  But bear one thing in mind, young man,” he said, voice even and calm as water still dripped off his ID badge, “I don’t care whose son you are.  Throw something at me again, and you may find extra stitches where you didn’t need them.”

He tilted his head once at Arthur and hustled out of the room, Lance gaping at him, Arthur trying not to laugh.

“You don’t have to look so happy,” the younger man groused, and Arthur turned back to him, still smiling.  “I had to do _something_.  I don’t want to be here, Arthur.”

“Lance,” Arthur admonished, “you don’t chuck vases at your doctor.  It’s just not done.  Besides, he’s right.  You need one more night of good rest.”

Frowning, Lancelot snuggled down into the bed deeper, the fleece blanket almost covering his entire body.  Only his head and a tiny bit of his neck showed.  “I feel fine.  Honestly.  I don’t like it here, Arthur.  Please?”  He batted long lashes at the other man, his innocent look fooling no one.  Arthur smirked. 

“No.  How old are you?  Five?  For pity’s sake, Lance, get some rest and you can leave tomorrow.”  Arthur walked around the bed, moving some of the blankets around, checking that the bedside table had water, and that all of Lancelot’s IV’s were still attached.

“How old are _you_?  Jesus, Castus, I’m fine.  Quit fussing,” the younger man snapped out, then sighed.  His face was still pale; the circles under his eyes still showing darkly.  Arthur stopped fretting about, and sat on the edge of the bed.

_You weren’t fine a few days ago.  You were bleeding onto the ground, the rain washing you away from me._

“Arthur,” the other man breathed quietly, his non IV strapped hand sliding out from under the blankets to grasp Arthur’s cold one.  He turned clearer eyes on Arthur.  “I will be alright.  I promise you.  You can’t get rid of me that easily,” he smiled, then allowed it to drop when Arthur didn’t smile back.  

Lancelot bit his lower lip and stared at the older man.  “I scared you, huh?” he asked quietly.

Arthur wanted to laugh at that comment, but he thought the irony would be lost on Lance.  Instead, he met the other man’s eyes, the deep, dark brown looking more alert and normal now, and merely nodded.  His fingers laced with Lance’s, and squeezed.

“Oh, Christ, Arthur,” Lancelot sighed, the chagrin filled look not an expression Arthur thought he’d ever seen on the angular face before him.  “I don’t know what to tell you.  It was an accident.”

“What the hell happened between you and Roland?” Arthur answered.  He had to know.  Had Lancelot truly gotten hit by the car by accident?  Or had he run out into the –

Arthur couldn’t even contemplate that possibility.  He waited for the other man to reply, his thumb stroking Lancelot’s fingers gently.

The embarassed look changed to a dark one.  “Nothing I care to discuss.  He’s fucked about in my life and Guin's life enough.  I’m old enough to choose who I want to be friends with, damn it!  I’m not stupid.  I know what he wants for me,” he continued, his eyes on Arthur’s hand that held his, “…and I know the price he wants me to pay.  I’m not willing to pay it.  I’m not willing to be like him – I never was.”

Arthur wanted to reply positively to Lancelot’s statements; he nodded emphatically but didn’t speak. 

_I’m not willing to be like him._

Arthur had seen those chocolate eyes go black with rage, had seen the moods that Lance could get in when he was upset about something.  He was afraid – somewhere inside himself that he chose not to acknowledge normally – that Lancelot could turn out to be very much like Roland Benoit easily.

And how horrible that would be – how it would break the happy, energetic young man and turn him into exactly what Lance's father had wanted his only son to be.

“Arthur?”

“Hmm?”

Arthur shook his head, gaze focusing back on Lance's face, Lance's eyes narrowed in concern as he stared at Arthur from the hospital bed.

“You believe me, don’t you?  I wouldn’t do this on purpose.  He just – god damn it, he made me so angry I wasn’t watching where I was going.  I swear it to you.  I wouldn’t get hurt like that.  Not when I still have you around,” Lance trailed off, his eyes dropping along with his voice.

“I mean, hell,” he raked his hand through his slightly greasy hair, his IV line flopping with the action, “how could you survive without me?”

He laughed slightly self consciously, still not meeting Arthur’s eyes. 

Arthur tugged gently on Lancelot’s fingers until the other man looked up.  Leaning forward, Arthur brushed his lips across Lance’s softly, once, twice, then a third time.  He sighed and pulled back, a small smile crossing his face at the dazed expression Lancelot wore.

“Uh huh,” Arthur replied dryly; his eyes, however, showed the exactness in that statement.  He didn’t want to think of what he would have to do, what he would be like without the younger man in his life.

Letting his eyes slide shut, he tried to push away the images assaulting him of Lancelot’s broken body, blood pooling in the rain, his casket, an impersonal nameplate marking him another dead Benoit in a gaudy, overblown crypt.

“You alright?”  The voice broke him from his vision, and he opened his eyes.  Lancelot stared at him, his somewhat battered face lined with concern.

“You moaned.  You feeling okay?”

_My life is brilliant_  
 _my love is pure_

“I’m fine.”  _God, please don’t take him_.

“You’re green.”

Arthur unlaced their fingers and stood.  “I’m just tired, I guess.”  He moved to the lounge chair in the corner of the room, and tried to settle comfortably. 

“What are you doing?” Lance asked him, as one of the night nurses entered the room and busied herself by checking meds and machines.  He tried to swat her away like a fly, frowning until she gave him a small shot of painkillers. 

Pulling the curtains, she looked back at Arthur before leaving.  “I didn’t see you here,” she stated plainly, then shut the door behind her.

Arthur laughed quietly as Lance stared after her with a puzzled expression.  “I’m not supposed to stay in here for the night,” he explained, “they’ve been overly nice to me.”

Lancelot made an “Ah,” face, then snuggled down in the small bed.  “Well, if that’s the case, come closer.  I’ll sleep better if I can see you.”

Arthur cocked an eyebrow.  “How can you see me if you’re asleep?” he asked, but moved obligingly closer anyway.  He fixed the chair so he slumped right next to Lance’s head.

“I can see you, Arth’r,” Lancelot mumbled, the drugs taking effect almost immediately.  “Even if it’s only in here,” he pointed to his skull, or rather, tried to, but succeeded in poking himself in the nose.  He laughed sluggishly as Arthur snorted, more tears burning the back of his throat.

Lance flopped his hand out, and Arthur took it, fingers twining again.  “Don’ leave,” came the sleepy words, and Arthur nodded even though Lancelot wasn’t watching him.  “I wouldn’t,” he replied in a choked whisper, “I won’t.”

“I can see you,” the younger man sing-songed, then dropped off, the morphine sending him into a medicine induced sleep.

“I can see you too, Lance,” Arthur whispered, his hand wrapping tightly around the other man’s.  He fished in his pocket with the free one, and pulled out the onyx cross that Lancelot had given him in high school – Arthur feeling as if that day had happened in another life to another person.

He clutched Lancelot’s fingers with his right hand, and the cross with his left, and slept, the lights burning and the sounds of the hospital echoing around them.

_Beautiful dawn lights up the shore for me_  
 _there is nothing else in the world I'd rather wake up and see_  
 _with you_

 


End file.
